Making Taffy With Margaret

Sugary mix roiling in a saucepan in the heart of the house: a light-filled kitchen where family meals were taken in lieu of the dining room, thought of by me in two words: 'formality' and 'dark', whereas, windows and a glass door in the kitchen let in light, led out to a porch, then into a fenced backyard where chickens ran free, and Yes, necks were wrung for the kitchen pot in not a rural setting, but a beach-town, in-town backyard--- not at a cottage, calling out to salt spray and seagulls, but a Victorian house, looming gray in memory, large with a wraparound porch, its rocking chairs facing a quiet street framed with sheltering trees: maples of the intricate bark and heart-shaped leaves, providing play place for games of Red Robin, May I, Hide and Seek, until at summer dusk the welcome call of Come Home, Come Home. No small screen there to distract us, not yet the turbulent news of a world at war A World Away. Instead, candy making in the kitchen. Taffy pulled and twisted into ropes, cut into pieces and left to harden on waxed paper. Then, Margaret, two older sisters and a brother, upstairs to bed, a ramp leading to bedrooms for them, an adjoining room below for Margaret and me, her best-friend guest. Bathroom to share, old-fashioned claw-foot tub, enameled in porcelain. A doomed wasp sometimes caught in golden window light between glass and a cream colored pulldown shade. Past our bedroom, an enclosed porch rose over its downstairs compatriot, meandering the entire length of the house. All things unneeded and used-up there, for the playtime delight of Margaret and me: Not used-up yet